


Ashamed, He Hid His Face

by darknessandrageandkittens



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Misunderstanding, Pining, Self-Worth Issues, Wings, it's short it's sweet there's pining and shit give it a go, this goes off a hc i have that angels wings are a lot more sensitive than demon wings bc of reasons, this is for sunny idk, uhhhhh vaguely super vaguely implied sex at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 19:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19775242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darknessandrageandkittens/pseuds/darknessandrageandkittens
Summary: It starts in the Beginning.Well, no.Technically it starts shortly after the beginning.It ends at the Ending.Well, no.Technically, it ends shortly after the Ending never comes.





	Ashamed, He Hid His Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AStarlitSunflower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStarlitSunflower/gifts).



It starts like this.

In the beginning- well, no. It starts slightly after the beginning. The sky is perfect. The trees are perfect. The people are perfect, and that grates, the perfectness of it, so it seems only natural that something mar it. Sink it’s fangs in and let it’s venom distort this bland, boring perfection. And anyway, the woman was curious, and what about the pursuit of knowledge was unholy? If anything, supporting free will was a markedly holy thing.

Of course, that same argument got Crowley kicked out of Heaven in the first place, so maybe not.

But this was after that. After the Second Great Fall, that of Man, but before strife had truly touched Her newest children.

The world was still mostly perfect, and the most perfect part of it stood watch at the Eastern Gate. Crowley slithered up to observe, shifted into a friendlier face. Crowley was far from perfect, but he was stubborn, conceited, and refused to shy away from the heavenly beauty. Joking, he teased at this shining otherness’s loss. A flaming sword is a thing one wants to keep on hand, when there are serpents in the garden.

Aziraphale was not concerned about the Garden, or serpents, or guarding particularly anything. Aziraphale was concerned about the humans, and the unborn inventor of Murder. Crowley wondered, later, if Aziraphale would care quite as much if he had known how Cain would turn out, but even as he asked himself he knew the answer.

Of course he would. Aziraphale loved everything. Everyone. He even, in his own detached way, seemed to love Crowley.

But this was the beginning. Crowley stood under Aziraphale’s wings, and wondered at his imperfection, that he would give away his weapon, lie to God, and how it only made him more perfect.

Crowley saw it, saw him care, and a small rebellious part of himself wondered what it would be like, to love beyond orders. Thus a seed was planted, there in the first Garden, and like everything Crowley planted, it grew beautifully.

-

It starts like this. Demons and Angels have similar appearances, though a demon’s wings are more tidy. It’s vanity at it’s best, of course, but more than that, it’s the sensitivity. To Fall was to burn, to scar, and while the wings looked much the same, they didn’t have the depth of feeling that an angel’s wings might. A demon can tug and pull and pluck with hardly any discomfort, while an angel would squirm and fuss and fidget. It’s intimate. It’s a sign of trust. You don’t just go around pulling on an angel’s feathers.

This doesn’t stop Crowley from offering, and dusted pink, Aziraphale accepts.

With quiet hisses and choked whimpers, Aziraphale does his best to sit still as his cohort rearranges his ruffled wings. Crowley laughs, privately marveling.

“I thought I was the snake, angel.”

“Well if you’d be more gentle…”

“Hush. I can’t be gentle, I’m a demon.”

“Brute,” Aziraphale muttered, “Were I more inclined to profanity, I would disagree with you much more strongly.”

Crowley snickered and tweaked his primaries, grinning at the jump.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough! I’m sure I look more than presentable, dear.”

Crowley stuck his tongue out, but acquiesced.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said brightly, “Turn around. Your turn.”

Crowley froze, not entirely expecting the gesture to be returned.

“What would your office say,” he teased uneasily, “if they knew how eager you were to get your hands on the wings of the adversary.”

Aziraphale scoffed.

“You’re hardly THE adversary, dear. You’re just a little garden snake.”

“Oi!”

“Barely a threat to anyone, really.”

“Alright, then! Alright! Lay off, angel.”

“Not even venomous, really. Almost. Cute.”

“That’s far enough.”

“That,” Aziraphale stated primly, “Is what you would call revenge.”

“From an angel.”

“You’d call it revenge. I call it righteous chastisement.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, settling on his stomach and nestling into the mattress.

“Well, get on with it.”

“Are you certain it won’t hurt, dear?”

He laughed bitterly.

“Don’t feel much of anything there, Aziraphale. You’d have to pull very hard.”

Aziraphale hummed quietly, almost an apology, and ran his fingers over the already immaculate feathers. Crowley tried not to think about it, how much bigger this was for him than himself. How intimate it was for an angel. What it meant that he would do this for him, that he wanted to do it.

Aziraphale loved everything and everyone, including Crowley in his own quiet way, loved radically, loved rebelliously, but it was hardly specific. Aziraphale loved rats. Aziraphale loved Her. Loving something as detestable as Crowley wasn’t particular. It wasn’t a big deal.

Loving an angel? Now that was trouble. But Crowley was always good at getting himself into trouble. 

Aziraphale’s hands move from his wings to his shoulders, calmly rubbing out the kinks and knots one acquires when their spine won’t move the way it was made to. Crowley practically purred, moving deeper into the duvet. 

This isn’t a big deal, he thinks to himself. He probably did this all the time in his stupid gentleman’s club. He probably did this to Oscar bloody Wilde. It wasn’t. It wasn’t indicative of anything.

Aziraphale was a physical being. He liked to soak up luxuries, this was just another way to glut himself, on skin, soaking up warmth with a nice friendly camaraderie. Not that Crowley ran particularly warm. Quite the opposite, he was basking in the angel’s warmth, lazily stretching out under his hands.

“Is that enough, dear?”

No, he thinks.

“Yes, that should do it.”

“It’s just you look quite content, and I fear you might drift off soon.”

Crowley shrugged lazily.

“Should I go?”

“Nah,” Crowley murmured nonchalantly, “You can stay. If you want.”

He could feel Aziraphale’s smile. He hid his own in the pillow.

-

It starts like this.

Everything almost ended.

Everything almost ended, and Crowley lost Aziraphale, lost him, only to get him back, only to almost lose him again. Twice.

It’s a bit much, even for a demon. No one can blame him if he holds on a bit tight.

“I love you,” he whispers into his hair, his skin, his coat, “I love you, I love you, I love you I love you I love you I love you-”

“Shhh,” Aziraphale gentles, hands grabbing him close and running over him, his shoulders, his arms, his hair, “Shhhh, now, love, I know. I know, I know you do.”

And Crowley wants to sob, because of course he did, everyone did, anyone who ever looked at him did.

“I love you too.”

“I don’t. I don’t mean it like you do.”

Aziraphale loves everything and everyone, even if he doesn’t always like it, of course he loves Crowley.

Aziraphale stiffens under his clinging, and Crowley grips tighter, silently imploring not to be sent away.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale breathes, “What on Earth do you mean.”

“You love everyone. You’re. You’re holy. You’re divine.”

“Heaven just tried to kill me.”

“Because you’re better,” Crowley hisses fiercely.

“Crowley-”

“I love you selfishly. I want you all to myself. I’m. I’m a demon, Aziraphale. I want you. I want you, just you. I’m. I’m not benevolent. I’m not saying I love you like I love stalling traffic, or sleep. I love you. Just you. I’d keep you if I could.”

His eyes were squeezed tight at the confession, the painful baring of what passed for his soul. He was prepared for disgust, for confusion. He wasn’t prepared for laughter. He looked at him.

“Crowley. You’re very clever. But I’m afraid you’re also incredibly stupid.”

And with that, Aziraphale took his face in his hands and pressed his mouth against his.

Benediction.

It only burned a little.

Crowley leaned into it, hungry, and Aziraphale let him take more, hands rubbing softly at his neck.

“How long,” he panted out, voice hoarse.

“That I’ve known I loved you? World War 2.”

“Ha.” Crowley grinned. It wasn’t a particularly nice grin, but it wasn’t particularly cruel either. “A century. I’ve got you beat.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yes.”

“Really.”

“Oh, angel.” His hands reached up to grip Aziraphales’, bringing them gently to his mouth. “I’ve loved you since you told me you gave away that blasted sword.”

He flushed an adorable red.

“Oh. Oh, my.”

“Yes, oh.”

“You’ve wanted me all this time?”

“Madly,” Crowley groaned, trying not to kick himself for his own denseness.

“You’ve been quite patient, dear.”

“Not as patient as you might think,” he grumbled, thinking of the many nights glaring at the ceiling.

“Still. It’s. Admirable, for a demon.”

“Admirable,” he scoffed.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said gently, brushing his nose against his, “Admirable. Quite deserving, I should think, of a reward.”

Crowley stiffened.

“Reward?”

“Of course, dearest. What is it you want? Anything.”

“Anything,” Crowley’s tongue passed across his lips, with a nervous quickness.

“Well except my sword. Long gone now.”

Crowley laughed.

“Love me?”

Aziraphale’s eyes softened.

“You couldn’t stop me if you tried.”

-

It ends like this.

Crowley lies on his stomach, snuggling closer into the duvet, and Aziraphale leans behind him, hands massaging away. He’s gentle, far too gentle with him, and he bends over to press small hot kisses to his back. Crowley squirms like a snake and hisses, unsure if it’s too much or not enough.

Aziraphale ignores it, keeps up the tender caresses and gentle ministrations. 

“Harder?”

“No, dear, I don’t think I will.”

“Too. Too sweet. It’s gross.”

“I’ll be as sweet as I like with my beloved, thank you.”

It’s too much. It’s not enough. It burns at Crowley’s eyelids and sinks into his bones, love pressed into him with hands and fingers and blunt teeth. He’s desperate. He’s ecstatic. He’s in love.

Aziraphale loves everything and everyone, but he loves Crowley best of all, possibly even more than fresh eclairs, and Crowley soaks it up like a snake sprawled out in the sun on the garden path.

“I love you,” he whispers into the pillow. He hears it in return, and smiles. It’s divine love. It only hurts a little.

**Author's Note:**

> this is for sunny i hope y'all enjoyed it tho. first good omens fic


End file.
